When the Dust Settles
by Julia9
Summary: *Complete* Starts right after the BtVS finale...Spuffy romance...written in Buffy's POV
1. Back Again

Author's Note: This chapter is written in Buffy's POV and starts right episode 7.22 "Chosen" ended. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ My gaze is frozen on the sunken crater, a collapsed mess of cement, Earth and steel that used to be the entrance to Hell. Clouds of dust billow upwards as the 'Welcome to Sunnydale' sign falls off the precipice and crashes onto the rubble. I can hear the voices all around me but none of the words make any sense. All I can do is stare into the Hellmouth, not really seeing the desolation that surrounds me; I can still see his face in my mind, his voice ringing in my ears as I ran away from the crumbling high school. It's almost like a part of him is still with me, like my champion defied Fate so he could stay in this world.  
  
Tears stream down my cheeks, mixing with the sweat and dried blood. I want to wipe away the moisture, to clear the burning pain that sears my eyes as the dirt mixes with salty teardrops. But my hand is frozen, wrapped around my waist, tightly clutching the tattered edges of my shirt. His presence is still embedded in my fingertips; I can still feel his cool skin beneath my hand as I caressed his cheek, my trembling digits grazing over those impossibly high cheekbones. So I don't wipe away the stinging moisture, because it would be too much like erasing him from my psyche.  
  
Faith's voice cuts through my memories, disturbing the images of him that I've trying to preserve. She's muttering something about being normal girls who get the chance to live normal lives. I want to scream at her to be quiet, to force her to stop talking before her words destroy the illusions I'm building around myself. Instead I twist my mouth into a tightlipped grimace, a poor imitation of a smile. When she pauses to take a breath, I nod my head so everyone thinks that I'm engrossed in the conversation.  
  
I feel like I'm trapped in some kind of time warp where the world's been turned upside down; my friends want me to be happy so I project the happy persona, because that's what they needed to see. Only this time he isn't here to rescue me, he isn't here to see through the façade and break down the walls I built to lock myself away. He isn't here to save me.  
  
Dawn touches my shoulder and I have to resist the urge to shake off her hand. Shaking my head, I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and try to make sense of what Faith's saying. It's a hopeless battle; I can't concentrate on Faith or anyone else, my mind is filled with images of him. I won't cry for him because I can't admit that he's really gone, I don't want to face a world without him. He's been a part of my life for six years, whether he was my mortal enemy, my informant, my confidant, my lover or my friend. I need him and he isn't around. He's dead; really dead, not like before when he was undead.  
  
Now Xander's making some terrible joke about pushing Giles into the Hellmouth, and everyone's chuckling instead of sobbing. Their laughter grates on the one nerve I have left, it just seems so out of place but I don't have the heart to play the authoritarian general who maintains order. Then I realize that I'm laughing too, a high-pitched hysterical giggle that just cuts through the air. My knees can't support my weight anymore and I collapse in a heap on the ground. The dust fills my consciousness, sticking to my wet cheeks and coating my mouth; it doesn't matter though because my peroxide blonde punk rocker poet is gone.  
  
A rough voice cuts through my emotional rollercoaster, the familiar accent reminding me of a thousand moonlight patrols and a hundred conversations under starry skies. Great, now I'm hearing things. I can feel a hand on my back, the long fingers rubbing wide circles over my rounded shoulders. If I keep my eyes closed, I can pretend that it's his hand and that we're lying in a tangled heap of limbs on his cot. There's that damn voice again, a rich baritone that sounds so much like him. "Buffy, look at me," it pleads, losing some of the harshness and sounding like a shy schoolboy. My heart hurts so badly, it wants to believe that the hand on my back is his, even though I know that's impossible.  
  
I lift my head up, slowly rolling my eyes upwards from the ground to look into the face of my mind's illusion. But this doesn't feel like a dream, it doesn't feel like something my mind conjured up to torment me with; it feels real. The piercing azure eyes look real, just like the platinum blonde curls and the leather duster look exactly like they did the last time I saw him. His words are slowly penetrating through my exhausted mind; he's asking me something, but I can't figure out what. Now he's turning away, talking to Giles, shaking his head. He's disappointed in me, I let him down again. It's sad how I wasn't even upset that he didn't believe my spontaneous declaration of love right before the school collapsed. In the back of my mind I knew that he wouldn't believe me, hell I wouldn't believe me either. I'm emotionally closed-off, with serious emotional and relationship issues, topped up with a superiority complex about being the Chosen One. What's not to believe?  
  
"You're not real," I choke out. I don't know whether I'm trying to convince myself or if I'm trying to convince him. He smiles, that sexy half-smirk I love so much. "Yes I am," he murmurs, his voice low and seductive. "No," I repeat, standing up until I'm face to face with him. His hand reaches out to cup my cheek and I can feel my resolve weakening at his touch. We inch closer together until our noses are almost touching. He tilts his head towards mine, his lips parting slightly. "Yes," he whispers before he places a feather-light kiss on my lips. My fingers tangle themselves in his curls, deepening the kiss. I don't want to think about what twist of fate brought him back to me, I don't want to analyze this moment, I just want to concentrate on the feeling of his arms around my waist; I just want to savor being with my love again. 


	2. Real Man

His lips are caressing mine, lightly dancing over the dry cracked skin. Each soft kiss brings me closer to him, breaking through the thick fog of delusions and tattered dreams that cloud my mind. I feel like I'm rising through the depths of the ocean, away from the inky blackness of the bottom where the light cannot penetrate, moving closer to the sparkling crystal- blue surface. Everything is happening so fast, my mind can't make sense of it all; there's too much to think about, too many questions left unanswered. But all I can concentrate on are his cool lips, gliding over mine like the gentle wings of a butterfly. This is so different from all our other kisses, it isn't about rekindling a flame or satisfying a lustful desire; it's about love, pure soul-binding frozen in time heart-stopping love. There's something almost magical about the way he can make me feel, it's like the entire world just fades away and the only thing left is him. He's my anchor in the tumultuous storm that I'm caught in, the only thing in the entire world that feels real to me, the only thing that makes sense.  
  
My lungs are burning, furiously protesting the lack of oxygen, screaming at me to break the kiss and take a deep gulp of air. But I can't let him go. My hands drift downward from his hair, clutching the lapels of his duster, my knuckles white with the strain. I can't loosen my grip on his coat, if I let go of him then he might vanish. I'm afraid that when I open my eyes, I won't see deep azure orbs but instead the monochromatic asphalt of the highway. I can only imagine what we look like, and for a moment it's like I'm seeing myself through someone else's eyes. His hands cup my face, the pale fingers a sharp contrast against my dirty cheeks. My body is enveloped by his duster as it swirls in the wind, a flash a blonde and tan beneath pressed against his lean frame. My hand clings to his duster, embedding the crescent marks of my nails into the buttery-soft leather, because it hurts too much to stand alone. I would rather cling to this figment of my imagination then face my friends, the tattered remains of my army.  
  
It's like a terrible nightmare, his lips pulling away from mine, breaking our bond. My traitorous mind wills my eyes to open but I'm too afraid, I can't face a world without him. He was my strength, my champion, my savior, the only person who truly knew who I was. Even now I need him by my side. I always needed him. I wish he had known that. The familiar wave of nostalgia is rising inside me, the tightness in my chest that always precedes a harsh deluge of tears. A glimmer of sunlight creeps through my half-closed lids and I squeeze my eyes tightly shut. I've finally lost my mind. Now I know I'm truly insane. He wasn't real, he couldn't be real. He's just a shadow, a ghost, a phantom masquerading as my love. Somehow in the midst of my delusion I forgot that I was standing in the blinding sunlight. The emotions are welling up to the point of being painful, squeezing my heart in a vice as I struggle to digest this new piece of information. Insanity's funny like that, I guess. My mind can conjure up this man to stand beside me, someone who exists only in my mind, but it can't get rid of the crushing emotions. It can't erase the constantly conflicting feelings, the overwhelming guilt; I can't move forward, I can't look back, I'm trapped in this moment where my dreams are being destroyed right in front of my face but I still refuse to face the truth.  
  
A strangled sob fills the air and I realize that I'm the one crying, that its my voice piercing the air with a primal howl of pain. This fantasy world is sure persistent, because there's that damn voice again. Only now it's not so tender and concerned. It's rough, demanding, more balls and swagger, less gentle. "Open your eyes," it growls, the accent low and rich, so familiar it hurts to listen. A maniacal smile brightens my thin face and I know that if my eyes were open, they would be glittering with madness. I don't care that this isn't real, that vampires can't stand in the sun, that my love just burst into flames to close the Hellmouth. It's more tolerable to pretend that he's real then it is to face a world without him by my side.  
  
My eyes snap open and there he is, a vision in black. Aged leather duster, faded jeans, scuffed combat boots, the way I always picture him. His platinum hair gleams in the sunlight, giving him the appearance of an angel, a prophet or some other celestial being. "Am I dead," I ask, hoping that some obscure deity has taken pity on our broken hearts and joined us together in eternity, ending my suffering. He chuckles, his blue eyes glittering with mirth; his laughter fits the moment, it's comforting. "No," he answers, sticking to simple words, as if my grief-stricken mind can only comprehend single-syllable thoughts.  
  
I hate how child-like my voice sounds, how confused I am, how stupid I must appear in his eyes. I always despised looking foolish in front of him, but I continue with my questions. I want to understand what's going on, I need to know the terrifying depths of my madness, to see how far my mind will go to convince me that he is real. "Are you dead," I ask, instantly regretting the words, waiting for the inevitable sarcastic barb about him being dead for decades. There's that smile again, he's shaking his head in amusement or maybe it's in aggravation; I never could tell with him. No, it's amusement because his eyes are sparkling like sapphires, twinkling with laughter and a few unshed tears. "Not anymore," he answers, his cheekbones strikingly prominent, the corners of his mouth upturned in a sweet smile. I've never seen him smile like that before, or maybe I never wanted to see him smile like that, never wanted to think about who he was beneath all the layers of bravado and image.  
  
The look in his eyes is so genuine and familiar, for a moment I almost think that my sweet vampire is the one crushing me against his chest. I know now that he isn't my vampire, this creature before me isn't Spike. But for an instant I could ignore the warmth of his body, the comforting rhythm echoing inside his chest, the way his platinum hair gleamed in the sunlight; for that one moment I could pretend that he's real. Turning away from his piercing gaze, I look back at what's left of my army. Teenage girls standing by the school bus, their faces wet with tears, not one of them escaped the Battle unscathed. I don't care whether they're crying because they're happy to be alive or because they're sad that so many of their sisters, fellow Slayers, are dead. Even Faith is crying, she's trying to wipe away the mess of moisture and black mascara that's dripping down her cheeks, but I can still tell. Xander and Andrew are gaping at something behind me, staring at the spot over my shoulder where Spike's face exists in the shadows of my mind.  
  
I lock eyes with Willow and that's when it hits me. I'm not crazy, I'm not delusional, I haven't lost all grip on reality. Her face is covered with tears but I haven't seen her smile like that in years. I shake my head no, not ready to believe, and she nods yes emphatically, her red hair swinging across her face as fresh tears well up in her eyes. My own eyes are burning with tears and I laugh, little giggles of disbelief. Then I'm laughing and crying and hugging him so tightly that I'm afraid he'll break into pieces. But he's laughing too, his arms wrapped tightly around my waist, our bodies fitting together perfectly as he crushes my body against his. I kiss him again; it's been years since I felt this happy, this free. I'd forgotten what it's like to smile this wide, to live in the moment because nothing else in the world was more important. 


	3. No Real Answers

Leave it to Giles to ruin the moment, but then he was never one for the emotional, over-the-top, happy ending. He never liked Spike anyway but it's kinda hard to hate the guy who just died to save the world. "What kind of magic is this," he asks, and his voice isn't demanding or accusatory like I'd expected. It's almost hesitant, like he wants nothing more then to just ignore the apocalyptic implications of an undead vampire bursting into flames and re-emerging from the mouth of Hell as a living man. No one can answer him; we don't know what kind of mystical forces brought Spike back.  
  
Before anyone can start to guess at what's happened, a child's high-pitched voice solves the riddle and poses twenty more. "Mine," she replies, her white hair sparking from the sunlight and an inner glow of power. Willow inhales sharply, bowing her head reverently, whispering, "sweet Goddess," but no one acknowledges her. We're all too busy staring at this little girl who's anything but. Power is radiating off her in waves and her presence exudes an ancient wisdom.  
  
She's speaking again, talking about some prophecy and how Spike restored the balance between good and evil. It's paradoxical; we can close the Hellmouth but the prophecies just keep following us, controlling our Destiny. Shaking my head, I realize that I haven't been paying attention to the petite goddess. She's talking about me and Spike now, gesturing quickly with her hands as Giles gapes in open astonishment. "The warrior who conquered her inner darkness shall be joined with the champion who sought his inner light." She paused, looking first at me, her eyes a myriad of colors, her gaze unwavering, "love is your gift." Then she turns to Spike, a soft smile curling the corners of her mouth, "and life is your reward."  
  
It's in that moment that I realize that his necklace, the mystical amulet that was so powerful in our battle against the First, is broken. Half hangs around his neck, the thick chain looking out of place against his black tee- shirt. I guess I forgot to notice that when I was arguing with myself. As the childlike deity vanishes, I realize that I'm wearing the other half of the pendant, a heavy mass of metal and gemstone.  
  
The silence is eerie; it's too quiet out on this deserted highway. I clasp his hand, smiling because I finally understand what's happening. I know he's real, that he's alive. I know that I love him. My eyes lock with his, hazel meeting blue. "I love you," I say, my lips trembling with anticipation of his next words, and he doesn't fail me. "I know," he replies, squeezing my hand gently. His arm drapes across my shoulders, "and I love you." Together we turn to face my friends, my family. They have questions, I don't have answers. But no one ever really has all the answers. It doesn't matter though, because Spike's here with me. We're together now and that's all I need.  
  
THE END 


End file.
